Easy Sundays Ch. 01: New York

That Sunday Gene was walking into the park when he realized he was walking a good distance behind one of his night class visiting lecturers at Columbia, the novelist and Serbian nationalist Victor Macek. The man taught political novel writing at Columbia, and Gene had become entranced not only with how hunky the man was in person but also how dangerously and romantically adventuresome were the events he wrote about in the breakup of Eastern Europe and the sectarian infighting there. He was a rugged, thuggish, hard-used-looking man, probably in his early, experienced forties, who was ugly and handsome at the same time. His battle scars showed on his face and his muscular body was powerfully built and, in addition to imagining writhing under him, Gene could fantasize about tracing the scars of other wounds on his body while being taxed with what he was sure was a thick cock in his passage.

Gene was highly sexed enough to gauge each man he met as a possible lover. His political novel class professor at Columbia ranked high on Gene's list of possible lovers—and not just as a lover but as a rough, demanding dominator. The thought of sex with the man both scared and fascinated Gene. There were times when Gene wanted to be manhandled. That was one reason he played the Central Park game. He'd been told to watch out for johns picked up there—that often a mild-looking upper-upper-middle-class businessman shopped there to let loose of his inner nasty. On occasion that was what Gene was looking for in a hookup.

Gene followed Macek, thinking of a way that he could get to his bench before the hunky Serbian passed that way. At first he thought the man was meandering, but he eventually could see that he was stalking—that he was following the rent-boy Alonzo. Alonzo must have sensed that too, because he found a bench, sat, and let Macek slow as he passed him—then Macek went into slow, eye-contact motion for two more passes before he sat on the bench beside the young dancer, who had held his ground on the bench. Gene watched them leave the park together, Macek cupping the dancer's buttocks and leading him in the direction of 7th Avenue.

Later that afternoon Gene encountered Alonzo in the park.

"I saw the john you left with earlier, the rough-looking guy with the great build," Gene said. "Was he—?"

"I'd suggest staying away from him," Alonzo interjected. "Rough, intense bastard. Big dicked, and it was all about him. He didn't fuck as much as he conquered. Really rough."

"But he did it for you?"

"He paid well . . . yes."

"I mean, you got totally fucked?"

"I got totally beaten down and ravished."

Gene shivered. Alonzo obviously had meant it as a turn-away warning, but Gene was in a mood and it hit him more as a delicious arousal. So impressed was he that, when the opportunity came, he forgot his rule of only really letting loose on Sunday.

The next Tuesday night he went to his political novels class at Columbia twitching and hardly able to concentrate on the lecture. Macek seemed to be preoccupied and lost his place in his notes several times too—and he seemed to let his eyes linger on Gene more than on most in the class. He asked that Gene stay late after class.

"Your class project prospectus says you were working on a novel about the violence in the breakup of Yugoslavia, Gene," he said to the young man at the desk in front of the room while the other students were filing out.

"Yes, I find that period fascinating and . . ." He didn't complete the sentence. He would have said "arousing." That's what he thought about the topic, brought on, he knew, by how he viewed the hunky, mysterious Serbian nationalist who was teaching this course. He couldn't be open about that, though. In his fantasies he wanted to be writhing under this man, but he was a teacher. Gene knew it would be dangerous to go there—even now when he knew that Macek played the Central Park game.

"I was there—in Yugoslavia—during the breakup. I could give you some pointers that might help you decide where to begin with your work."

"Could you? That would be terrific," Gene said.

"This evening. Now. We could go to a café or hotel bar or somewhere and chat a bit for an hour. I have time. What do you think?"

It was the bar in a small, rather seedy hotel a few blocks from the Columbia campus, entered off a dark side street. There weren't many others in the bar. All of them were men. As he sipped his drink and before anything was said other than innocuous chitchat, Gene watched a middle-aged man in a suit pick up a young guy in tight jeans and a chest-revealing mesh T-shirt who had been perched on a stool at the end of the bar. They didn't head for the hotel exit when they left the bar; they went together to the bank of elevators to the upper floors. So, it was that kind of hotel.

Macek didn't even get into talking about Yugoslavia and Serbian nationalism.

"I saw you in the park—in Central Park—on Sunday," the professor said.

"It's not too far from where I live," Gene answered. "I like to go there for inspiration."

"I'm well aware of why young men like you go there," Macek said, putting a hand under the surface of the table and gripping Gene's knee. Gene wanted to yelp from how strong the grip was, but he also wanted to melt. He started going hard. "I've also seen a couple of the videos you've been in."

"Videos?" Gene asked, panicked about whether to admit to them or not.

"They are on the Internet, on some of the Web sites I like to check out. You're a sexy young man," Macek said in a husky voice. "I want to fuck you. I want to break you—like I've seen a black bodybuilder do to you on film, but more so."

"I, uh . . ."

"I have a room upstairs."

Of course he did. It wasn't Sunday, and Gene had a rule that he didn't let loose to his fantasies like this except on Sunday, but, God, he wanted this.

Macek was rough and violent and fucked Gene totally, and the young man hated and loved it, lying there on the floor of the seedy hotel room in a fetal position, mentally checking out both the surface and internal damage when the Serb had dressed and left the room—and still half hoping that the door would open and the man would return and continue using his body to its limits.

No man Gene had had sex with until now had a cock the size of Macek's, and no man had used his cock as a weapon like Macek had done with him. If Gene hadn't been promiscuous and trained to big cocks, the Serb would have totally ruined him.

The first fuck was just inside the room, starting with Gene on his knees and Macek brutally face fucking him while he took short time-outs to strip the young man. Macek remained clothed, just his long, heavy dick protruding out of his fly. He lifted the moaning Gene, turned him, and slammed him up against the wall next to the door.

"Chest and cheek against the wall; butt projected out," he commanded, and Gene did as commanded. Grabbing Gene's wrists together with one strong hand, Macek forced the young man's arms above his head. Guiding his cock with the other hand, he put it in position at Gene's ass, spit down on his cock a couple of times to provide a minimum off lube, and, as Gene cried out at the violation, penetrated him deep and began to pump hard.

It took Gene much huffing and puffing and watering of the eyes to open to the man, but when he had and Macek had set up a steady rhythm of the fuck, the Serb suddenly pulled out of Gene's ass, spun him around, and gave him a slap across the face that sent the young man reeling back to go down on his belly on the bed. Macek was immediately straddling him and pulling strips of leather from around his waist that had served as a belt. He used these to bind Gene's wrists, his arms extended above his head, the young man's ankles, and his legs, holding his thighs close together.

"Is this how you treated your enemies in Serbia?" Gene asked, close to sobbing.

"Yes, but you are not my enemy. You will survive it. But you want to write about how brutal the civil wars were where I came from? This is a taste of that. If I had not done it, it would have been done to me."

Macek stood off from the side of the bed, giving Gene a full view of him, while he stripped. His body was muscular, magnificent. And there were scars on his torso and thighs from the grazing of bullets and knife slashes. When he turned his back, Gene could see permanent welts from lashings. Gene moaned and whimpering, having no trouble understanding what the man had been through and what had made him so demanding and violent.

And then Gene screamed, which was muffled by Macek stuffing Gene's briefs in his mouth. The Serb had mounted his ass on the bed, had thrust inside his restricted passage with his huge cock, and was pumping him again.

Gene's senses were flooded with a combination of pain and pleasure. This was what he'd been aching for—to feel the fuck. He'd been with so many "slam-bang-thanks-good-bye" men in the last couple of months that this hell was heaven for him. The cum rose quickly in him and he shot his load into the bedspread on the creaking bed.

With a laugh, Macek whipped off the bindings and turned Gene and pushed him off to the floor.

"Crawl to the door," he commanded. "Let's see how far you get."

Gene didn't get far before Macek reached him; crouched over him, holding him up on all fours; and finished the fuck doggie style, taking him from behind and above hard and deep. When the Serb had ejaculated, he tore off his condom, dropped it in front of Gene's face, and let the young man collapse into a fetal position.

"That was fun," he growled as he dressed. "You've got a sweet, tight ass. Surprising as much as you've probably been used. You gave in to it like you really wanted it. You needed it and you loved it. We'll do it again. You'll make great grades in the course—and you'll be surprised where we meet again." And then he left the room.

The young man lay there, moaning, too weak even to pull the briefs out of his mouth for some time. He had been brutalized. He ached all over. But he was in heaven. The man had been right. It was exactly what he had needed. The question was how often could he take what he now knew he needed and still survive?

* * * *

Not all men picked up in Central Park were rough or self-possessed and one trick Gene served in the weeks Victor Macek was reeling him in under his control remained memorable in Gene's mind. Gene was lounging on his usual bench in the park. Sometime previously he had noticed a possible john sitting on a bench across the path and a bit down from Gene's bench. The man was obviously Jewish, complete with black yarmulke—a small skull cap—white shirt and black trousers, and was at least in his late thirties, but he looked like he had a good body and he had a sultry sensuality about him. He had a bushy, wavy head of black hair, which also curled on his bare forearms and spilled out of the neck of his white shirt, the top two buttons open and the fineness of the shirt material not obscuring the hairy barrel chest underneath.

Gene caught the man watching him, and he wondered why he was taking so long to approach him if he was looking for a rent-boy. But he wasn't just watching. He was sketching on a large pad of paper as well. Gene was wondering whether he was expected to make the approach, when the rent-boy, Alonzo, who he knew from working the park, strolled by, stopped, and stood in front of the bench, raising one foot after the other, placing them beside Gene, to stretch out his legs. He and Gene chatted a bit.

Gene brought Alonzo's attention to the Jewish man at the bench across the way. "See that guy across the path? He's been sitting there sketching and watching me for some time. You know anything about him? Is he a player?"

Alonzo looked around, took the man in, and turned back and smiled. "That's the lover."

"The lover?"

"Yeah. His name is Josh—a rich Jew from the garment district. He's one who's good for you on a day you've been fucked really rough. He's sweet. He'll make you believe in riding the clouds in sex. Hung like a bull but he makes love—doesn't just fuck. Pays well."

After Alonzo moved on, Gene waited a few minutes, giving the guy he'd called "the lover" time to either make a move or move on, but he didn't do either. So, Gene made the move himself.

"Hi. I couldn't help seeing you over here, looking at me and sketching something," Gene said, standing in front of the man where he was sitting on the bench. The man gave him a warm smile.

"I was sketching you," the man said. "I'm in men's wear. You look like a male model. I couldn't resist drawing you in some clothes I've been designing in my mind." He flipped a couple of pages on his sketch pad and turned it to where Gene could see it.

"Hey. That's really good. It looks like me. And you thought right. I am a male model. I like what you've clothed me in in that sketch. I think you should make that ensemble."

"I've also been wondering what else you might do," the man said. "Do you do anything else other than modeling? I saw you talking with Alonzo just now. Do you do what Alonzo does?"

"Go with men for money, do you mean?"

"Yes. Alonzo has gone with me."

"That's what he said."

"Did he say he was disappointed with going with me?"

"No. He was very complimentary."

"I haven't just sketched you in clothes I'm considering designing," the man said. "I also like to sketch fantasies I have. Would you like to see? You probably don't want to see it if you aren't cruising."

"Sure, I'd love to see it," Gene answered.

The man flipped the pages in the sketch pad again and turned another sketch around for Gene to see.

Gene sucked in breath. The sketch was of two men—he and the man—this man, Josh. Both of them were naked. The man in the sketch was fucking Gene in a missionary on a bed. The man in the sketch had a beautiful, hirsute body. He was holding the other man's hips and he was inside him deep. The Gene of the sketch had his legs raised and spread and his head was arched back looking at the viewer. The expression on his face was one of ecstasy.

"Is this how Alonzo said it would be with me?" the man whispered.

"Yes," Gene said, with a low moan. "How realistic is this sketch you've done of yourself?"

"I try to be honest in my sketching. Would you go with me for the night if you find I look like this naked? My place is a couple of subway stops away. Will you go with me and then lay down for me if I live up to this sketch?" He named a fee that was quite generous.

They hopped a subway at the 72nd Street station midway at the park on West Central Park and rode it down to the port authority stop at 42nd Street. The Jew, introducing himself as Josh, held Gene's eyes with his during the journey, but he didn't otherwise touch him or show evidence of possession or dominance. They chatted a bit, Josh revealing that he ran an exclusive men's shop, designing and showing his own clothes to an invitation-only list of well-heeled patrons. Beyond that he also volume edited a small literary journal. Their interests were amazingly similar, despite the difference in the worlds they lived in. Although Josh was in the modern tradition, he was definitely a traditional Jew, if not extremely Orthodox, and was right at home in the garment district world. Gene had been raised totally unchurched. Because of their expressed mutual interests, Gene revealed more of himself than he normally would to a john. He told Josh of his modeling for the House of Havlos and that he was a creative writing student at Columbia.

Their destination was a narrow, five-story brownstone on a quiet block of 39th Street, smack dab in the middle of the garment district, the ground floor of which had a garage door at one side that, Josh said, led back to several parking spaces across the back of building to accommodate his personal car and a couple of shop vans, and a shop on the other side, with large windows toward the street with mannequins, in men's clothes, on display. Between them was a door and a hallway with an elevator and a stairwell beyond.

As they waited for the elevator, Josh pulled Gene gently to him and they engaged in their first, tender kiss. "That was nice," Josh whispered as the elevator arrived and they pulled away from each other. "You have sweet, soft lips."

Yes, it was nice, Gene agreed in his mind.

As the elevator rose, Josh pointed out what they were passing. The second floor was for the clothing business work rooms. The third was where his literary magazine was published. The fourth and fifth proved to house Josh's expansive, expensively and tastefully furnished living quarters. Alonzo had told Gene Josh was from money. Gene believed him.

Josh's technique was to work slowly but deliberately and always with the climax anticipated, and it worked a charm with Gene, who was used to the fast lay and faster good-bye.

The bottom floor of Josh's living quarters was essentially all one room, with one area flowing into the other and the back wall, overlooking a flood-light swathed lush garden, being entirely glass. The seduction sofa faced the wall of glass, so that when Josh went to the kitchen area marked off with a breakfast bar island to make their drinks, Gene didn't see him.

When he came back with drinks, he had stripped down to a pair of filmy white cotton nearly knee-length boxer shorts. The shorts might have been from a line of sexy men's clothes designed by Josh himself, as they were cleverly constructed to give dueling impressions. On the surface they were very modest, covering a lot and looking like dowdy puritanical undergarments. But as Gene saw when Josh was standing before him, holding out Gene's drink, they were so gauzy that they were functionally transparent.

Josh was dark haired and hirsute. He was built solid and muscular without being overbuilt. The patterns of curls on his forearms and thighs and swirling around his pecs and down his sternum and belly and into his pubes were so sensual that they had to be groomed. The curls of his pubes were also tight but manly. Most significant, they could clearly be seen through the material of the underwear. His half-hard cock was mammoth, the exposed bulb huge and pressed against the material of the cotton shorts, hiding nothing while declaring the garb as pure innocence.

Josh looked down into Gene's eyes. "Satisfactory? Does it live up the sketch?"

"Very satisfactory," Gene whispered in a breathy voice. In his mind he was already riding the juicy cock.

But Josh made him wait.

* * * *

They sat close to each other on the sofa, looking out into the garden as the natural light floated away to be replaced by the spotlights highlighting new and different aspects. They sipped their drinks and kissed and fondled each other, Josh's hands going everywhere, slowly disrobing Gene until the young man was naked and hard and throbbing. Josh brushed Gene's hand away each time he tried to remove the gauzy underwear shorts, the last of what Josh was wearing, but he didn't stop the man he'd bought for the night from slipping his hand under the garment's waistband and fondling Josh's balls and stroking his cock bigger and bigger and bigger yet. Gene knew why he was there.

An album rested on the coffee table. Gene had assumed that it would contain dirty photos meant to arouse him. But, even better, it contained sketches rendered by Josh himself of other young men—and of Josh—of Josh fucking other young men on this sofa or on a bed, mostly likely in a room above where they were plastered together, making languid love, working their way into higher heat and arousal. Invariably in the sketches, the young man was shown in ecstasy. In some the root of Josh's thick cock was shown inside the young man's gaping hole. Josh was giving Gene every opportunity to know the extraordinary length and girth of him, so Gene's arousal of knowing how much of Josh was inside the young men in these sketches—and the anticipation that they were moving slowly but inexorably to the shaft being inside Gene heightened his arousal to where he couldn't take any more.